The Seer and the Time Traveler
by dethrone.jane
Summary: After the Second Wizarding War ended horribly, the Savior of Britain traveled to the past in order to reverse the death of his loved ones, stumbling across a seemingly mentally-ill girl who claimed to be able to see the future.


**I know how annoying a long author note is, so I will make this quick. Thank you for clicking! I hope you find this story interesting, at the very least. This story contains a lot of Harry Potter verse, so if you're not familiar with it, you will probably be confused. I'm not going to rewrite things that J.K. Rowling already wrote (DISCLAIMER! Harry Potter is NOT mine!), but if you have some questions, feel free to state them in your review or PM me-either way is fine. Oh, if you want answers to your review, be sure to enable PM and to not post anonymously (how can I respond?) Thank you for taking your time to read this. Enjoy the ride!**

**Warning : Character Death, OOC, Angst**

**Thank you for Kyle Heatherwings and George Heathcliff for proofreading this! (despite Kyle's resistance to read anything long and George's disgust towards Twilight verse in general)**

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><p><strong>THE SEER AND THE TIME TRAVELER<strong>

* * *

><p><em>"Even if it turns out that time travel is impossible, it is important that we understand why it is impossible."<em>

_(Stephen Hawking)_

* * *

><p><strong>(Misf<strong>**ortune)**

* * *

><p>Not many considered <em>Love <em>to be associated with magic, but the minority who did was few of the wisest wizards to ever walk on earth. _Love _is the strongest form of emotion; brighter than hate and more intense than vengeance. The brightest of the minds theorized that there was a vital difference between magic done with hatred and the one with love—the latter has more intensity, stronger willpower to win for the sake of those one wants to protect.

Love was what saved the Chosen One that night. The pure, undivided love of a mother for her child deflected the darkest form of magic with which humans had interfered. The mother, knowing that her death was imminent, willed for nothing but the survival of her only child. The murderer, intending to kill a hopeless baby, was torn apart.

Love is never logical. But it exists in every person. It grows accordingly, changing its form constantly, greatly affected by the experiences one has gained. Every experience shapes love, and love shapes actions in the future, thus shaping every new experience itself. Love is very, very dangerous to be tampered with.

Love can create peace, but love isn't equal to peace. Love saved the Boy-Who-Lived that night, but it was also love which destroyed him.

A young man's hoarse scream echoed in the deafening silence. His green eyes were full of tears, mixing with blood as they fell down his cheek. His left hand was fixed on the floor, and the other was repeatedly surging, creating a breaking sound with every swing. His right fist was bleeding, probably even broken, but he didn't stop. He couldn't. All he could feel was hatred, exploding in his chest everytime his fist connected with the pale, snake-like face which was hardly recognizable at this point. Blood covered almost all of his face—except for the lifeless, icy blue eyes that couldn't look at the boy before them anymore.

For a second, those icy blue eyes suddenly belonged to someone else—bright green eyes like his own. He gasped, instantly backing off, fear gripping his heart. His shouts echoed, repeating both in the hall and in his head. He had been screaming for too long that his brain seemed to be accustomed to it—and at once, his screams started to turn into the screams of everyone else.

Harry James Potter raked his hair very hard that his scalp bled, one last screech escaping his mouth before he lost consciousness.

* * *

><p><strong>June 11th, 1999<strong>

"Back again, Mr. Potter? Been two years since I last saw you."

Ollivander stood behind the counter, gesturing Harry to come in even though the young man was already in. He gave him a kind look—one of both gratitude and pity—that the young man utterly despised. Harry swallowed the harsh words on the tip of his tongue and said instead, "There's something that I want to ask you."

The old man looked at him curiously. "What is it?"

"I know you're familiar with the Fenderstein theory."

Ollivander appeared impassive, but Harry was sharp enough to see his eyes slightly widening, showing sudden discomfort.

"I do," Ollivander confirmed, casually placing wand boxes into the correct shelves. It gave Harry a flash of a memory—the first time he entered the shop with the insufferable, yet kindest giant he had ever met. "And many others do too. It was quite a popular theory in my teenage years, Mr. Potter. Unfortunately, I've never been very interested in it. I'm afraid you've gone to the wrong person. Albus wasn't very interested in it either, but he knew more than I did."

Harry smiled pleasantly. "I know you've tried it."

All four boxes that Ollivander was holding fell, its crash contrast to the silence that followed. The old man slowly turned to Harry in the way Dumbledore used to in dire situations; widened blue eyes, mouth slightly agape, and suddenly Harry was smashed with another memory.

"_No.. Don't.. Give me.."_

"_Professor, you have to drink this."_

"_Please.."_

"_You have to."_

Ollivander's words snapped him out of his reverie. "As a matter of fact, yes I did. It's not something I'm proud of, Mr. Potter. Surely you understand. All you need to know is that I failed."

"Oh, I know you failed," Harry said. "I'm not here to ask you how I can get it done. I don't have to. I've figured it out."

Ollivander stilled. His eyes darkened, his jaw set. "That's not possible."

"Took me two years, so yeah it's bloody hard. But impossible? No. See—there's a difference between a teenager driven by curiosity and one driven by the borderline of sanity and insanity. I figured it all out, Mr. Ollivander," Harry looked him in the eye. "I can get it done—I _will _get it done if you lend me a hand on this. It requires the job of a very competent wandmaker."

There was a flicker in the old man's eyes. Desire. Thirst to pursue his long-lost dream. But it died as quickly as it rose. Ollivander shook his head forcefully. "I told you. I failed. I can't make that wand."

"You will have my instructions. An access to information that you didn't know back then."

Harry could tell that the old man was tempted. The Boy-Who-Lived was baiting him with the rotten apple; ugly, twisted, yet enticing. He was swinging the key for the lost chest of the old man's young years that could spark something in him again.

"I don't have a reason to help you," Ollivander said flatly, his eyes showing guilt as he said this. Clearly, he remembered Harry taking him out of Malfoy's Manor two years ago.

"Not many people come to your door to drag you into a fairly dangerous plan, sir," Harry said. "And not many bring you the very specific type of plan—plan that you've been dying to get your hands on for decades. As much as you claim that you love wandmaking, the monotonous ritual bores you; you want something more—something huge. You want to prove to yourself that you're not an ordinary wandmaker. That you're more than your father ever was. And this, Mr. Ollivander, will be the breakthrough of wand-making. This will be your mark on this world, before you depart for the next one."

Harry took several steps closer to the booth. He placed his wand on the table, smiling at the gobsmacked Ollivander.

"So, shall we begin?"

* * *

><p><strong>December 31st, 1999<strong>

The quiet knock on the door jolted Harry out of his sleep. He stood, momentarily giving himself a chance to adapt, before walking to the door of his flat. He had discarded Sirius' house and moved everything he had—which wasn't much—to a medium-sized flat in London, living in the horde of muggles. There was something calming in living alone in a world that didn't have magic—for a moment, he could pretend that such a monstrosity never existed in the first place.

The visitor turned out to be his favorite wandmaker. Ollivander stood, shaking from the cold weather. On his hands, there was a black box. Harry stared at it. "You've finished?"

"Yes," Ollivander said. "Now do let me in, Potter. It's freezing out here."

After both of them were in and the door was locked (manually), Ollivander opened the box and took out the wand. It was hard and inflexible, cold and unbreakable.

"12 inches, steel, blood," Ollivander's voice trembled. "Your blood, Mr. Potter."

Then he handed the wand to Harry with carefulness of a mother handing out her baby. Harry received it just as gently. He could understand Ollivander's attachment towards the wand. He stared at its beauty, at its deadly appearance that made his stomach lurched with excitement.

"Are you sure?" Ollivander asked. His voice was quiet, shaky.

Harry turned to him, to really observe him. There were uncertainty and fear in his eyes. "You have doubt in your own creation?"

"No," Ollivander immediately answered, a little offended. "I know it's going to work. What I don't know is whether you're prepared for the consequences."

Then Harry found what was so familiar with the look on Ollivander's eyes. It was the same expression Remus wore when he knew the three of them were going straight to danger, and the older man could do nothing to help. He was surprised by Ollivander's sentiment. Ollivander never seemed to be a person who truly cared for anything aside from wands.

"I've been prepared ever since the first time I've heard about it," Harry told him. These words had no effect on Ollivander's apparent worries. The old man kept pacing in Harry's small flat, perhaps thinking to convince him against this. He was the first to try, yet he was too late.

Harry held the wand high, pointing to the ceiling.

"What?" Ollivander said, baffled. "Now? Here?"

"Most of the building's inhabitants are out celebrating New Year. The only one left is a couple in the first floor, which I estimate won't be affected by the magic output, which won't be destructive."

He prided himself for the lack of excitement slipping in his voice. He could barely keep himself from trembling.

Harry closed his eyes, feeling the cripples on his skin, the magic flowing in his veins. It was the oddest sensation he had ever come across. It felt like there were various streams in every part of his body, trying to get to the same exit on his right hand. All of his senses became overwhelmed, and he felt that he was floating, but his vision was too blurred to find out if he was.

With his last sense that was still activated normally, he turned to where Ollivander last stood and spoke, "Happy New Year, Mr. Ollivander."

Harry heard him shout "Harry!"—_Harry_, not Potter—as he felt like he was twisted, churned, impaled and kicked in all his sides, entering a vortex that led him to the past.

* * *

><p><strong>November 8th, 1917<strong>

Harry woke up with a severe headache, possibly broken ribs, and ringing in his ears. It took him quite a moment before he realized that he was lying on a bed—not a comfortable one, but a bed nonetheless. For a second, his heart almost stopped when his brain registered his surrounding as Hogwart's infirmary, but apparently it was just a normal infirmary with similar bed rest setting. Upon closer look, Harry noticed that the room was smaller, and had much less white. The curtains that covered the window were ragged and dirty, the corners of the ceiling were occupied by fungi. And that there was a pretty brunette with a long hair, her pale face curious and worried.

"Where am I?" Harry immediately tried to sit, which was a gross mistake. There was a rather loud _crack_, and the girl beside him freaked out more than he did.

"Don't move!" She hissed with ferocity that he didn't think a timid-looking girl like her possessed. "You've been unconscious for ten days—"

"Ten days?" Harry repeated flatly. He had just lost four important days unconscious. The girl nodded.

Harry tried to move again, but the pain was almost unbearable. He turned to her and asked, "Could you give me a moment? Just turn around. Please."

There was no doubt that she was absolutely confused with his request, but she did turn her back. He held a sigh; it was a very foolish move. Had he been enemy undercover, she would've been dead.

But he wasn't, fortunately for her. So he took this chance to grab his wand from his jeans, and cast a few spells non-verbally. He could already feel his limbs snapping together, his nose healing itself, and the cuts throughout his body slowly closed. The only thing left was his headache; which, while decreased significantly, was still there.

"I'm done. Thank you."

When she turned around, Harry finally took her appearance; she was average height, but a little underweight, which became quite obvious with the oversized, dirty garment she wore. Her hair texture seemed to be straight and soft, but grease caused it to look fuller. Her skin was pale, without scars, but dirty and there were dark area under her bright blue eyes. Her lips were perfectly proportioned to her face, but dry and rough.

Harry couldn't help asking. "What are you on the run for?"

Her face was still, impassive. The only sign of reaction was the slight widening of her eyes and it was enough for Harry to know that he was right. She barely opened her mouth until there was a huge sound of a ringing bell that echoed in the bright, vast room they were in.

The gravity of the situation felt like ice over him. "What date is it?"

She tilted her head, "November 8th."

Harry stared at her impatiently. "Year?"

Her eyes narrowed at the question, but Harry urged her to answer. "1917."

Harry cursed loudly, ignoring the girl's indignant cry. He meant to travel to 1926 and he was sent nine years further. He immediately jumped off the bed, ignoring her again, spinning around the room as he thought furiously. What went wrong? What did he miscalculate?

Information that he read from ancient books began to flash inside his mind, as he concentrated immensely to find the right one.

"_The essence of time is absolute. Once one tampers, the effect leads to numerous alternatives. These—"_

"_Few wizards know that time is a flow of magic. If one could control magic well enough, then the subject of time is not impossible, even though—"_

"—_traveling back in time requires the highest sacrifice from an individual—"_

"—_blood, only the blood of the one who means to travel—"_

"—_the only essence strong enough to withstand blood is steel, which is __almost impossible to attempt__ since steel is never alive—"_

"—_precision depends on concentration of the surroundings, not the date—"_

There. There it was. His gross miscalculation was the object of his concentration. He had concentrated on the date, yet time had existed much farther before the system of dates that human created. The magic of time never kept count of the date; it kept count of the events that occurred. This meant that the date that he was thinking of was something of significance here. Harry swiftly turned to the girl that he had completely forgotten yet was still transfixed on him. "Have you got newspaper?"

"I don't read newspaper," She said, still eyeing him strangely. "But perhaps there's some on the first floor."

By the end of her sentence, he was already out of the door. There was an exasperated sigh that followed, and apparently the girl followed him. Harry couldn't have a person suddenly following him around, but he could deal with it later. Once he was on the first floor, he snatched a newspaper from an obese old man, replying his "Oi!" with a humm.

His eyes scanned for the date. December 31, 1926.

"December 31st, December 31st.."

"Oi, lad," The old man from whom he snatched the newspaper said irritably. "You do know I'm reading those, right?"

He interjected, "You heard anything about December 31st?"

The man was still glaring at him, but Harry simply rose his eyebrows in expectation. With a sigh, he said, "Couldn't think of anything."

Before Harry could press more, the round man stood and snatched the paper roughly out of his hands. He stalked off, grumbling through the entire corridor, while Harry was still fixating on the significance of the date which he needed to find in order to validate his earlier theory.

He didn't even notice the girl was already catching up to him until her hand touched her back. There was something odd in her blue eyes; a mix of fear, uncertainty and curiosity. "Why are you so interested in that particular date?"

"No reason," Harry lied smoothly, though not subtly. He saw no reason giving very important bit of his plan to a stranger—even worse, a muggle.

Harry paced in the now empty corridor—except for the girl and himself, wondering what the wise move would be. Brainstorming for the possible reasons of his failure of traveling to the right time was the safest option, but prolonging his stay wasn't an option. He supposed he'd have to take the risk and try his theory.

He was about to flee the building when something clicked in his mind. He spun, his eyes immediately finding the girl looking him with an expression he couldn't quite place. Sadness, more likely. But why?

Then he understood why. He had bristled at the fact that ten days passed without him doing anything, so he had forgotten the fact that the girl had done everything to keep him alive. And it wasn't an easy feat, as she was seemingly unable to take proper care of herself. He didn't even know how she got him into this building, which wasn't a hospital, but looked like one. He almost fled without showing an ounce of gratitude. Social interactions were something that he had detached from himself for a long time; it wasn't a wonder that his sensitivity turned dull.

Harry walked a couple of steps to approach her. When he was finally in front of her, he said with the most sincerity he could muster, "Thank you."

He almost didn't notice that the corner of her lips quirked up. His eyes were fixed on her big blue eyes, which stared at him with burning intensity for completely unknown reason. His mind was boggled by this; by the fact that she stared at him so blandly and the fact that his eyes somehow couldn't look away.

Suddenly, a trivial question slipped right out of his mouth, "What's your name?"

He didn't quite know why he asked, since the information was completely irrelevant and he would most likely forget them in hours.

It was a fairly easy question, but her eyebrows furrowed. After a few seconds, she answered. "Alice."

The way she struggled to give her name could mean two things. First, that it wasn't her real name. Second, that it was, but she was distasteful towards it. Yet two conditions didn't match as she smiled like there was pride and humor at the same time. It seemed like 'Alice' was the name that she _chose_, but at the same time born with. Perhaps a nickname. Or middle name. Or maybe an anagram of her given name. And he couldn't place a reason. Harry almost asked again, but decided against it, inwardly chastising himself for almost getting distracted.

It was Alice's turn to ask. "And yours?"

It felt rather convenient that Alice only gave her first name. Harry gave her a small, tired smile. "Harry." _Just Harry._

Alice kept staring at him, half-smiling, as if she was trying to read his thoughts. He stared back, unable to direct his gaze away from her. She kept looking at him as if he was a blind man that couldn't catch her looking. The seconds that passed were excruciatingly slow, and after exactly five seconds, Harry bid her goodbye and walked towards the door.

"Will I see you again?"

This question stopped him in the hallway. It was spoken quietly, softly, like she had already known she would be disappointed by his answer. He turned so he could study her face. Her blue eyes were wide, full of wonder. "If fate commands it."

That was a horrendous lie. They would never see each other again, because that was the last day he ever went to 1917.

* * *

><p><strong>December 31st, 1926<strong>

Harry arrived safely, standing in in a small, dark alley that he imagined. He was in one piece, but his head was pounding mercilessly that he fell down to his knees. He stayed still for a while, soaking in the heavy rain. There was again ringing in his ears. He hated this part—the part of withstanding pain that he didn't understand. It was one thing to be under Cruciatus curse, knowing exactly how or why it hurt. It was another to be curling on the street because the pain in his body was too much, and the theories inside his head didn't make sense.

_At least he was conscious._ When the pain began to fade, he grabbed a hold of his wand and let the magic fix his wounds. The pain lessened gradually, but the pounding in his head and the ringing is his ears were unfixable by magic. He had to wait for a while, until they started to disappear. Finally, after ten minutes or so, Harry was able to stand without feeling bludgers banging on his head.

After an hour of standing in a small, dark alley, soaked because of the rain, Harry's eyes finally spotted a thin woman with round stomach that seemed too heavy for her fragile figure. Merope Gaunt. Harry watched like a hawk as she screamed in front of the orphanage's door, her legs twisting in pain. He wanted to look away, but couldn't. His stare was fixed on her as she fell down, hands hitting the marble floor wildly, her eyes mad. The image of the birth of Tom Riddle burned in his mind, causing his chest to feel heavier. Finally, after Tom Riddle was almost out, the door opened and a round, elderly woman squeaked in utter surprise.

The old woman immediately stepped over Merope Gaunt and took the newborn into her arms. Harry watched, unmoving, as Merope said how she wished that little Riddle would look like his handsome father, and he was to be named Tom, after his father, Marvolo, after her father, and Riddle as his last name.

Not long after that, Riddle's mother breath hitched, and Harry froze.

His hand subconsciously reached for his wand, the incantation to heal her almost slipped out of his lips. Four years ago, it would have slipped without a second thought and future Tom Riddle would grow up with a mother—a mentally damaged one, but a mother nonetheless. However, four years had passed and things that he didn't even have the courage to imagine occurred. Voices started to fill his ears. Screams, to be exact. Then, a sea of faces. All of them were hollow. Empty. Lifeless.

Harry's eyes opened in a flash. His right hand dropped.

Exactly twenty three seconds later, Riddle's mother stopped breathing.

'_We're so alike, you and I.'_

His knuckles went white, his nails drawing blood. Because no matter how hard he denied it in the past, it was all true. Harry was Riddle. And Riddle was Harry.

He merely watched as panic began to overtake the elderly woman. Soon, the dead road was ignited with whispers and hushes. Only several of those who gathered to watch actually did something to move the dead woman. A rough, middle-aged man carried her with difficulty that he tried not to show. Slytherin's pure blood trailed down Riddle's Mother's leg, dripping to the road, stepped on by muggles.

Harry almost smiled. _At its rightful place._

It was when the commotion died that Harry finally moved from his spot. He had been waiting for hours—no, two years to set his foot on this doorstep. The tip of the wand touched the door knob and it opened without a sound. He stepped in. Thunders began to light the dark sky.

His grip on the wand tightened. He refused to associate this moment to anything else—it was in no way similar to anything he ever experienced.

One step. Two steps. He walked up the wooden stairs with great weight dragging his feet. Thunder exploded again causing the room to be blindingly bright for a second. His steps hesitated. During that one second, his eyes registered a body lying on the floor, black hair disheveled, brown eyes opened behind broken glasses.

But it was merely an illusion; his mind playing tricks on him.

The door creaked slightly as it opened, and the woman in the room instantly turned around to see him. A streak of red light caused her to be unconscious before she could beg for the baby's life. See? It was different.

He pointed his wand at the small baby in the cradle. He should've cast the damn spell right there, but curiosity got the better of him. He took a few steps closer, until his left hand touched the wooden cradle.

Harry didn't know what he expected—maybe a set of cold, blue eyes filled with malicious indifference. What he saw was a pair of blue eyes, slightly opened, brimming with innocence.

He was trembling. He didn't know why. He couldn't back away; it would be equal to throwing away two years of his life dedicated only for this moment. He couldn't fail because of a single moment of weakness.

Tears blurred his vision. Out of nowhere, the hazy image before him distorted, and he saw Tom Riddle staring at him from the other side of the mirror.

He blinked. He turned his focus to the tiny figure before him. Magic began to gather in his fingertips.

"Harry."

The voice sounded very real. As if she was here, speaking to him. Gently. Lovingly.

"You're so loved. You're so loved."

_Focus._

"Mama loves you. Dada loves you."

_Remember the incantation. Cast the spell._

"Harry, be safe. Be strong."

His knees hit the ligneous floor. There was something indescribable that shattered him, pieces to even smaller pieces until it felt like he was merely as big as his tears. His wand was dropped, long forgotten, as he struggled to restrain himself from falling and lying so that he could release the weight on every inch of his body, and the heaviest, and most crucial part—his chest.

Slowly, his heartbeat started to steady. Tears began to dry, and his strength began to return and voices in his head were no more. He took the steel wand in his hand as he stood. The baby was there, staring at him with morbid interest and a little touch of fear—as if he knew what Harry was about to do.

Harry took a deep, shaky breath.

"We're different after all. You and me."

* * *

><p><strong>October 15th, 1991<strong>

The next one was in 1991. This was never part of the plan, but his mind was tangled, filled with uncontrollable anguish and disgust towards himself. His memory was blurred, painted with too many red that it was hard to see the details that he needed. He was unthinking, ignoring the temporary pain that his body started to get used to, as he appeared in the same, familiar corridor that he had lived in for seven years and walked and walked until he found the door.

The room was empty, without a single person under disillusionment charm. He began to wonder why, but that train of thoughts only lasted a second until his eyes caught the huge mirror at the center of the room.

Harry walked, eyes wide, until he was merely a step away from the glass. His eyes were fixed on the faces that welcomed him; faces that had been taken from him. The ones that should have lived.

"I'll see you again," He said. "Everything that's happened—I'm going to prevent it."

The faces behind the mirror smiled.

* * *

><p><strong>August 5th, 1925<strong>

Harry sent himself a few decades back, appearing next to the house that Dumbledore once showed him through a memory. The Gaunt's residence was seemingly empty, lacking Marvolo Gaunt's violent shouts and Morfin's vile guffaws. This should be the time where Merope was finally alone, freed from her abusive family's grasp. Harry walked closer to the house, and peeked through the window.

At first he thought that there was no one inside, but there was Merope, her hair lank and dull, with garment as dark as the house's interior. She was doing something, but the object of her concentration was blocked by her body in his view; what he did notice was that her right hand seemed to be moving in steady, circular motion. Harry's eyes narrowed as pink smoke seemed to drift from her front. He'd recognize that particular potion anytime and anyplace. Amortentia.

Disgust and hatred stirred in Harry. He detested manipulation; especially those who toyed with emotions that were too personal; too private. Nothing held him back as walked briskly to the front door, unlocked it, and pointed it squarely aiming on her chest.

Merope Gaunt barely had a time to react. Her mouth opened to scream, but before the words were out, the green light hit her and she fell, eyes wide and unseeing.

* * *

><p><strong>January 1st, 2000<strong>

Drops of rain pulled Harry back to consciousness, his back flat on the hard, cold stone that was the floor of Gaunt's. He didn't understand why he blacked out, but his mind immediately jumped to more important things and he quickly stood, composing himself. He had to blink a few times until he regained perfect vision, and in front of him, lied Merope Gaunt, lifeless like a ragged doll.

He couldn't lie—not to himself. He couldn't keep the corners of his mouth from twitching up. Twisted satisfaction lit his chest, cheering for the death of a mad woman that he didn't even personally know. Some part of him, deep down, the untainted and so like past version of himself, felt ill for both the sight and his uncontrollable reaction towards it. Mostly, though, Harry Potter was smiling.

Perhaps something had snapped inside of him. It was the last thing of his concern—he was now filled with hope so dangerously much that he was now trembling. It took every bit of his energy to point the wand upwards and let the vortex chewed him alive, enduring the pain that was always the same but never familiar.

There were many, many possibilities that his mind calculated for the outcome of his action. But not one of them resulted him standing still before the same two, unmoving and unchanging, tombstones.

_Here Lie_

_The Heroes of the Second Wizarding War_

_RONALD WEASLEY_

_HERMIONE GRANGER_

The world seemed to stop. Everything—people, dogs, leaves, time, his brain, his breath, his heartbeat. Then all of a sudden, before his brain could process any little trivial thing, memories crashed, invading the only sense of his that was still working. Flashes of blood, of flesh, of dead eyes burned in his mind, reeling like an old movie, repetitive like a broken record. Then his sense of hearing was awakened by screams of two people in the world that he loved the most. Then his sense of smell was relieving how iron-like blood scent was, and suddenly there was the taste of it in his mouth.

"_No_," Harry growled lowly. He would not do this to himself.

_This is not the end of the world._

It was merely a glitch in his plan. He would return, research more, and find what it was and fix it. Nothing could stop him from doing this. He had done his waiting, he had paid his price. He would have them back.

Harry stared at the tombstone with bizarre mixture of hatred and fondness. He sighed, raked his hair and kneeled in front of them. It was odd how different it was between standing and kneeling before them; when he kneeled, somehow, he felt their presence. It was as if they were kneeling with him, with her trying to smile and embrace him and the redhead beside her trying not to cry but miserably failing. He was crashed with a different set of emotions that he couldn't quite place. In the midst of it, a part of his mind thought how easy it was to simply let go.

He snorted at the ridiculous notion. It was not something that he wished for himself; it was something that haunted him. He would've let go if it was possible. But it wasn't. No matter how thin the string he was hanging on, he couldn't let go.

It's bizarre. Love, that is.


End file.
